The Mom Stop: Spring cleaning takes deeper meaning

Tuesday

Is hoarding genetic? That’s what I wondered recently while in the middle of finding a dusty box of unopened mail from 2004 and a bag of tire chains at my late grandmother’s Southern California home.

As I stood in her backyard, I was surrounded by construction materials, a mountain of empty plastic pots and a couple of lean-to greenhouses. I tried to decipher if anything stuffed inside a termite-ridden storage shed was worth saving. I didn’t have much time to think. We hired a “junk crew” of four men who used multiple dump trucks to quickly haul away everything in the backyard - a scene right out of those “hoarding” TV shows. It was that bad.

My grandmother, who died in January at age 96, came of age during the Great Depression, and was a young adult during World War II. Because of that experience, she seemingly saved everything, from empty spools of thread to aluminum foil. She saved the plastic bags that her Orange County Register newspapers were delivered in and used them to label all the things she stored. “Queen white fitted sheet, repaired” one bag was labeled. “Twin sheet flat sheet, needs repair” was written on another bag.

And my grandmother, who we called Bubby, loved finding things for free. A neighbor once told me that people in the area sometimes thought she was the local bag lady - never mind the fact that she lived in a house with an ocean view only a few blocks from the beach.

One of the first memories my father had was as a young boy, being lowered down inside a dumpster behind the local five-and-dime store. Inside were dozens of new, unopened beach balls. Bubby told him to get as many as he could. As my dad retold the story during Bubby’s funeral last month, he “was forever hooked,” he said as he laughed through tears.

If my dad found a retro-colored toilet on the side of the road, he’d save it, store it in the garage or the backyard, because somebody might be able to use it, he reasoned. When he discovered a Bow-flex machine had been thrown out by a neighbor, he somehow hauled that thing up a flight of stairs by himself. The machine sat in the corner of his living room for years, collecting dust, until my dad died April 1. We ended up donating it to the Salvation Army - I’m still doubtful that dad ever actually used it.

Dad always intended on cleaning up my grandmother’s house, clearing up the backyard, and building a guesthouse out back. One of the last conversations we had was about the gargantuan job he had before him, cleaning out not only all of the things that my grandmother had collected over the years, but all the things he had collected, too. It was overwhelming for him.

And it was overwhelming for me and my sister last week, surrounded by mountains of debris, trying to determine if anything was worth saving. Still mourning both our father and our grandmother, we had to deal with all the stuff they left behind. Inside a box of old bills, I found childhood pictures, a poster my sister had made our dad, and stuffed inside an old Wells Fargo envelope, our father’s birth certificate, complete with tiny footprints. When one of the junk crew members pulled out an old photo of my dad, guiding me on roller skates when I was about 4-years-old, I broke down in tears.

I couldn’t help but ask myself, is this where I am headed? Will this be what I become? Sure, I save a lot of my kids’ artwork, eventually putting them in boxes that are stored in the attic. My husband, who is inherently a “neat freak,” complains that the drawers in our entryway table are so cluttered that you can’t open them. Our tiny closet, which is only called a “walk in” because you can take one step sideways inside it, is overstuffed with clothes.

But does that mean I’m destined to become a hoarder?

According to a 2007 study from Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, around 50 to 80 percent of people who hoard have a first-degree relative who is considered to be a “pack rat” or a hoarder. The study also found that hoarding is likely linked to a region on chromosome 14, which is also tied with obsessive compulsive disorder.

“Are you a hoarder now?” my dad’s best friend, who is a retired doctor, asked me as he helped us clean out my grandmother’s kitchen.

“No,” I told him.

Sure, I live in a 1,600-square-foot house with my family of five and a very rambunctious boxer. There are drawers that are overstuffed, my attic is used for storage, but we routinely donate and give things away, I told him.

“And how old are you?” my dad’s best friend asked.

“I’m 37,” I told him.

“I think you’re safe,” he said.

Perhaps some part of hoarding is inherited. Perhaps some part of it is learned. But having to unexpectedly clear out an entire house worth of 50 years of hoarding recently, I think the experience has convinced me of what not to become, for my kids’ sake.

Next up on my to-do list when I get home: Cleaning out the junk drawer.Lydia Seabol Avant writes The Mom Stop for The Tuscaloosa News in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Reach her at lydia.seabolavant@tuscaloosanews.com.

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